The queen of my heart lives in Australia.
'I’ll be home one day Mum,” she tells me often, answering my unspoken question.
I think she might be home already, but doesn’t know it yet.
"I’ve never been happier Mum,” she tells me. And I can see that glow from the photographs she sends, so full of life they’re nearly three dimensional.
I look at these images as I walk in the quiet grounds of the castle in the small Irish village she grew up in. I send a picture of a heron by the water. The dying sunlight dappling through the winter trees, as I text, "Do you remember?”
Found Love
Since I last saw her, she has found love with sky-diving Sam; gained a gorgeous group of glamorous girlfriends; and become dog-mother to a miniature dachshund with an extensive bandana wardrobe - and an impressive Instagram following.
We’ve shared hundreds of phone calls. Everything and nothing to say. Worlds apart but joined together as only two people who once were one can be.
Tiptoeing around the triggers of homesickness. Sticking strictly to the safe cliches of how small the world is, and how lucky we are to have FaceTime to keep in touch.
Ironic, really, as there is no touch. Hasn’t been for a long time.
we used to say in amazement. Speaking of shopping trips to New York and weekends in European cities. Booked on a whim with a plastic card and a promise of payment.
"Off you go,” I said. "You must travel. Explore the world. Life is short. Grab it. You can be anything, live anywhere. Follow your dreams. Live your life.”
"You can come home any time.” I used to say that too.
Christmas comes and you’re trying to cram as much love as you can into a thin airmail envelope. Compensation for turkey and ham and the potato stuffing she insists you make every year.
An envelope that’s attempting to bridge all those miles and months and missed chats and hugs, with cheese and onion crisps, a box of her favourite tea and a sneaky bar of chocolate.
It’s a surprise of sorts so you address it to your Australian cousin’s house. A slight pang of envy that this woman who shares your surname and your grandparents now also shares your daughter.
You queue in the post office, hugging the cold envelope. Caught up in the emotion of Christmas as you edge towards the counter.
The lady behind the glass smiles as she passes you the familiar customs form that questions the contents of your precious package.
You take the pen and smile back. Knowing that you’re going to have to change it, but also knowing that it’s true, as you write in big black letters…
Contains love.
Read more
Kate Durrant: Sticky gears, a leaky footwell; and pink fluffy dice
Kate Durrant writes: The village school
The queen of my heart lives in Australia.
'I’ll be home one day Mum,” she tells me often, answering my unspoken question.
I think she might be home already, but doesn’t know it yet.
"I’ve never been happier Mum,” she tells me. And I can see that glow from the photographs she sends, so full of life they’re nearly three dimensional.
I look at these images as I walk in the quiet grounds of the castle in the small Irish village she grew up in. I send a picture of a heron by the water. The dying sunlight dappling through the winter trees, as I text, "Do you remember?”
Found Love
Since I last saw her, she has found love with sky-diving Sam; gained a gorgeous group of glamorous girlfriends; and become dog-mother to a miniature dachshund with an extensive bandana wardrobe - and an impressive Instagram following.
We’ve shared hundreds of phone calls. Everything and nothing to say. Worlds apart but joined together as only two people who once were one can be.
Tiptoeing around the triggers of homesickness. Sticking strictly to the safe cliches of how small the world is, and how lucky we are to have FaceTime to keep in touch.
Ironic, really, as there is no touch. Hasn’t been for a long time.
we used to say in amazement. Speaking of shopping trips to New York and weekends in European cities. Booked on a whim with a plastic card and a promise of payment.
"Off you go,” I said. "You must travel. Explore the world. Life is short. Grab it. You can be anything, live anywhere. Follow your dreams. Live your life.”
"You can come home any time.” I used to say that too.
Christmas comes and you’re trying to cram as much love as you can into a thin airmail envelope. Compensation for turkey and ham and the potato stuffing she insists you make every year.
An envelope that’s attempting to bridge all those miles and months and missed chats and hugs, with cheese and onion crisps, a box of her favourite tea and a sneaky bar of chocolate.
It’s a surprise of sorts so you address it to your Australian cousin’s house. A slight pang of envy that this woman who shares your surname and your grandparents now also shares your daughter.
You queue in the post office, hugging the cold envelope. Caught up in the emotion of Christmas as you edge towards the counter.
The lady behind the glass smiles as she passes you the familiar customs form that questions the contents of your precious package.
You take the pen and smile back. Knowing that you’re going to have to change it, but also knowing that it’s true, as you write in big black letters…
Contains love.
Read more
Kate Durrant: Sticky gears, a leaky footwell; and pink fluffy dice
Kate Durrant writes: The village school
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